This is basically yet another part of a larger piece I'm still tweaking. I'm not sure exactly where it fits in, or if it does. The flow of the prose and especially of the conversation is a bit of a departure from everything else I have. I think I like

They
met at a rally. A war rally, though it
doesn't really matter now. It wasn't a
war that was remembered beyond a blip on the after-work, shoes-off news. Besides, they knew. Don't think Hollywood on this one; the
idealism of the day didn't put rose-colored glasses on those two. If anything, their sight was crystal. They
knew. From the vantage point of
remembrance it may seem as if they were fools.
But only to those who are fools themselves.

She
was angry, that day. She was angry and
young and white in America; hardly a rarity, in
those days. Hell, that's hardly a rarity
these days. She certainly had reason
enough to be angry; as I said she was young and white (obviously, she was female)
and, perhaps most importantly, she was in America. When he first spotted her, his quarry, his
target, his story, when he first saw her, he blanched. In every possible sense. She was on the fringes of the demonstration,
leaning against an impossibly wide oak and looking as if she didn't quite know
what was happening, as if she didn't belong.
Oddly, she was the principal organizer of this and several other planned, publicized, ineffective rallies. He knew right away that the reason for the
incongruous wrath in her eyes did not live in the White House. He approached just as she was turning away
from the action. It appeared as though
she had seen enough. He paused; she
seemed much smaller, much shorter, from behind.
Careful not to touch her, even to get her attention, he wondered what
tact would gain him an in. That's all
they care about, those newspapermen; an in.
His best bet was excuse me…the perfect place to
start. Courtliness. Simplicity. It was better in all possible ways than hey.

Excuse me.

Yeah? She knew his
game. Yeah, yeah,
yeah, yeah. Yeah.

She wasn't playing. She probably
would have gone

for at least an Ibegyourpardon if he'd said
hey.

My name is Jonathan, Jonathan
King. I'm sure you've heard of me.

There. The
egotist. The
boor. He had her all figured

out.

Did you want something?

Perhaps not.

Yes.
I was wondering if you might be willing to grant me an interview. I'm writing
a piece on today's proceedings for TheVoice. I'd love to have your input.

She paused. Clearly she knew how
much he needed

her involvement. Clearly she knew she had him

cornered.

I bet you would. The Voice, hmm? Not
exactly our slice of pie, you know. A
bit

too…well I suspect you know what it is.

She glanced back at those demonstrators who were

still in the throes of political fervor. Their rhyming

threats
were only efficacious at drawing attention to

their
naïveté.

Tell me, Jonathan. Exactly what sort of spin are you supposed to
put on

today's….proceedings?

He
let a beat pass. He wasn't sure of
exactly what

to say; if he missed his cue, or was one word off

she'd probably brush him off.

Well, as you said, I know what The Voice is. And I suspect
that you do as well.

He
hit the mark with that one. She hmm'ed
her

approval.

Hmmm.

So what do you say? Care to give aid and comfort to the enemy?

The author would like to thank you for your continued support. Your review has been posted.